Don't Mess With Texas (2 page)

“Oh hell. It’s not the right thing.”

“What’s not the right thing?”

Nikki stared at her feet. “How important are the cooking shows anyway?”

“Which one?” asked the hostess, still mistaking Nikki’s muttering for conversation. “I like Rachael Ray.”

Releasing the hostess’s arm, Nikki turned to go, but stopped short when a waiter carting a tray of yeast-scented bread and real butter moved past. He left a wake of warm tantalizing aroma.

Crapola. She wouldn’t have sex with Jack. She wouldn’t remarry him, but could she sit through a dinner for some mouthwatering food? Yup, she could stoop that low.

Call it payment for defiling the much-loved antique
sofa in her office. No way could she have kept it after seeing him and her employee going at it doggy-style on the piece of furniture.

Mind made up, Nikki swung around and, without waiting for the hostess, shot across the dining room and plopped down at Jack’s table.

Still on the phone, Jack looked up. His eyes widened with what appeared to be relief, and he nodded. Dropping her purse at her feet and, not waiting for a bread plate, she snagged a hot roll and smeared a generous amount of sweet butter on it. Her mouth watered as the butter oozed over the bread.

“No,” Jack snapped into the phone and held up an apologetic finger to her.

She nodded, smiled, and took a bite of the roll. Her stomach growled as if it were saying bread alone wouldn’t silence or satisfy it. She noticed a bowl of gumbo sitting in front of Jack. She’d kill for gumbo. Too bad Jack had a thing about sharing food.

“Fuck, no!” Jack seethed. “I can’t do this.”

The F word brought Nikki’s gaze up from his gumbo. Jack, a refined lawyer trying to make partner and always concerned about public decorum, seldom cursed. Amazingly, from his viewpoint, screwing your wife’s part-time help wasn’t considered bad manners.

“Listen to me,” Jack muttered.

Nikki recalled Jack taking offense at her occasional slip of “shit,” “damn,” and “hell”—a habit she’d obtained from hanging out with Nana and the Ol’ Timers. Jack had almost broken her of it, too. Then, staring at his Armani suit and his hundred-dollar haircut, Nikki had an epiphany.

Jack had spent the entire two years of their marriage, not to mention the year they’d dated, trying to turn her into someone else—someone who would look good on the arm of a partner of the Brian and Sterns Law Firm.
Don’t say this. Say that. Wear this. Do you have to spend so much time with your grandmother?

Glancing down at her black pants and knit top, she knew he wouldn’t approve of her wardrobe. How odd that she hadn’t even considered dressing up for the event. Or maybe not odd. It should have been a clue that their reconciling was a joke. Seriously, she hadn’t even put on sexy underwear. Her gaze shot back to his gumbo.

Screw Jack’s apparel approval and his no-share policy. She reached for the bowl and, suddenly feeling lowbrow and proud of it, dunked her roll in the roux and brought the soupy mess to her lips.

Heaven
.

Spotting a floating shrimp in the cup, and not lowbrow enough to use her fingers, she went for Jack’s spoon.

He slapped his hand on top of hers and frowned—a disapproving, judgmental frown that pulled at his brown eyes.

Big mistake on his part.

Slipping her hand from under his, she fished out the shrimp with two fingers and ate it. Even made a show of licking her fingers. Jack’s mouth fell open at her lack of manners. Not that she cared. Considering the way things were going, the gumbo and rolls were all she’d be having for dinner. She might as well enjoy them.

A tuxedo-wearing waiter ran up and placed a spoon in front of her. Nikki smiled at his pinched, disapproving look, which matched her husband’s frown.

“Thank you,” she said, proving she wasn’t totally lacking in the manners department.

“Something to drink?” the waiter asked, his expression still critical of her lack of etiquette.

“A Budweiser, please.” She didn’t like beer, but it fit her mood. And just like that, she knew why. All this time—even after she’d caught Jack bare-ass naked with her employee, even after she realized how badly he’d screwed her with that prenuptial agreement—she’d never given Jack a bit of comeuppance. And why? Because she’d been more hurt than angry. Now, realizing she’d stopped loving him, the hurt had evaporated and she was just angry. And it wasn’t altogether a bad feeling, either.

Jack stood up. Frowning, he pressed his phone to his shoulder. “Order for us,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He snatched up his gumbo and handed it to the waiter. “And she’ll take a glass of Cabernet.” He took off.

Nikki tightened her hands on the edge of the table and considered walking out, but another waiter walked by with a plate of chicken marsala. She inhaled and eyed the waiter clutching Jack’s gumbo as if afraid she might fight him for it. And she might have but suddenly, she got an odd aftertaste from the gumbo. “Bring us one beef burgundy and one chicken marsala.
And my beer
.”

After one disapproving eye roll, the waiter walked away.

She’d already sipped from the frosty mug and devoured another roll when Jack returned. He sat across from her and frowned. She snatched another bite of bread, pretty certain her free meal had just come to an end.

His frown faded. “You have no idea how glad I am that you came.”

Nikki nearly choked on her bread. What? No condescending remark about her lack of manners? Jack was playing nice. Jack never played nice unless he
really
wanted something.

Did he want her back that badly? It wouldn’t change anything, but whose ego couldn’t use stroking?

He picked up his linen napkin and dabbed at his forehead where she’d just noticed he was sweating. Sweating was right up there with playing nice. Jack didn’t sweat.

Her pinching gut said something was up and it had to do with more than just her. She leaned in. “What’s going on, Jack?”

Dallas O’Connor walked into the building that housed both his business and apartment. Stopping just inside the doorway, he waited. Five seconds. Ten. When Bud didn’t greet him, Dallas looked over at the coffin against the nearby wall. Someone had opened the dang thing again.

He growled low in his throat, “Get out of there.”

One soulful second later, Bud—short for “Budweiser”—raised his head from inside the coffin and rested his hanging jowls on the edge of the polished wooden box. The pain of being chastised flashed in his huge bug eyes. Bud, an English bulldog, hated being chastised.

“Out,” Dallas said, lowering his voice. “It’s not a doggy bed.”

The prior owners of the building, which had been a funeral home, had left the damn casket when they moved out six months ago. Dallas had called and left numerous messages asking them to remove the dang thing, but no response. The last time he’d told them they had one more
week, and he was going to sell it on eBay. He was tired of having to explain the casket to his clients.

The dog leaped out of the coffin and barreled over to Dallas. After one swipe over the dog’s side, Dallas glanced at his watch and shot back to the office. He found Tyler, one of his Don’t Mess with Texas Private Investigations partners, listening to the police scanner as he watched the television. Tyler’s expression had worry stamped all over it, too.

“He hasn’t called yet?” Dallas removed his gun from his holster and placed it in his desk—a habit he hadn’t broken from the seven years he’d worked for the Glencoe Police Department. Seven years he wished he could get back. The only good thing that had come from those years was the friendship of his PI partners, Tyler and Austin.

Tyler glanced away from the television. “Not a word. Any luck at the park?”

“There were two female joggers, but neither of them fit the description Nance gave.”

Frowning, Tyler leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid we’re not going to get anything to save this kid. He’s going to go down for robbery.”

“It’s not over.” No way would Dallas let that innocent boy do time. But right now, both he and Tyler should be worried about one of their own. Dallas motioned to the police scanner. “Have the cops been called out yet?”

Tyler nodded and concern pinched his brows, making the two-inch scar over his right eye stretch tighter. “Thirty minutes ago.”

“Shit,” Dallas said. “Why the hell hasn’t he called?”

“You know Austin,” Tyler said. “He’s a lone wolf.”

“That’s not how we operate,” Dallas said, but in his gut
he knew they were all lone wolves. Life had taught them that was the only way to live. Getting set up by a lowlife drug dealer named DeLuna and then having almost everyone you believed in turn their backs on you—not to mention spending sixteen months in the slammer—well, it did that to you. It made you feel as if the only one you could trust was yourself.

Dallas glanced at the silent television. “Any media coverage?”

“Not yet,” Tyler said. “But the cops called for another unit to help hold them back, so they’re there.”

“Have you tried to reach him?” Dallas dialed Austin’s number.

“He’s not answering.” Tyler grabbed the remote and ramped up the volume. “We got something.”

Dallas glanced at the redheaded reporter on the screen, but listened to his cell until the call went to Austin’s voice mail and he hung up. The camera closed in on the reporter as she announced a breaking news segment.

“God, she’s hot,” Tyler said.

Dallas studied the redhead as she held a microphone close to her lips. “You need to get laid.”

“Okay,” Tyler said. “You want to give my number to that hot brunette I saw leaving here last week? Or tell your ex to pay me a visit. She could leave her underwear at my place, too.”

“Funny,” Dallas said, and regretted telling the guys about his screwup with his ex. Then again, he hadn’t told them. His dog had. Bud had come traipsing into the office the next morning with a pair of red panties hanging from his jowls. Thankfully, Suzan—aka, the hot brunette—was careful to take her underwear with her when she left his bed.
And she didn’t expect—or want—more than he was willing to give. The perfect relationship—pure sex. Twice a month, when her ex got her kids for the weekend, she showed up at his place. Most nights, she didn’t even stay over. Sex and the bed to himself—what more could a guy ask?

The news reporter started talking. “We’re here at the home of Blake Mallard, CEO of Acorn Oil Company. An anonymous caller said Mallard’s dirty shenanigans, both with the company and his personal life, were about to be made public.” The reporter paused.

“He had to have gotten out.” Tyler traced his finger over the scar at his temple. He’d earned it during their stint in prison. While Tyler never talked about the fight, Dallas knew the guy who’d given Tyler the mark hadn’t walked away unscathed. Rumor in the pen had it the guy hadn’t walked away at all, but had to be carried out on a stretcher. Jail time was never a walk in the park, but Dallas suspected Tyler had had a harder time behind bars than both he and Austin.

The reporter started talking again, and a smile threatened to spill from her lips. “According to sources, Mallard was found handcuffed to his bed with a call girl. The missing files Mallard swore were stolen from his office were found in the room. We’re told the cops were called to the residence by Mallard’s wife, who was worried someone had broken in.”

After a few beats of silence, the reporter continued. “We’re told the girl found with Mallard is claiming a guy dressed in a clown costume handcuffed them to the bed and pulled the files from Mallard’s private safe.”

“Did y’all try to call me?” Austin’s voice came from the doorway.

Dallas glanced up. “You…” Words failed him.

“I love it,” Tyler said and laughed.

“You mean this?” Austin motioned at his bright red-and-blue polka-dotted clown suit and multicolored wig. Whipping off the wig, he tossed it up and caught it.

Dallas shook his head. “You love theatrics, don’t you?”

“Theatrics? Are you kidding? This was brilliance. It’s a gated community. I had to get past security. A birthday party was happening next door to the Mallards. They wouldn’t let in a guy wearing a ski mask, but a clown? Not a problem.” Austin looked at the TV. “Did I make the news?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tyler said.

Austin tossed his wig on his desk. “It’s not every day we get to solve a cheating-spouse case and a real crime at the same time. It felt good. And now we can put this case to bed and I can focus on proving Nance is innocent.”

Dallas raked his hand through his hair. “I’ll bet a hundred bucks my brother will be calling me within five minutes, wanting to know if we’re behind this.”

Austin dropped his clown-suited ass into a chair. “Tell him Miller PD owes me a beer for solving their case.”

The reporter appeared on the screen again. Austin looked at the television. “She’s hot.”

“That’s what I said.” Tyler grinned.

Austin looked back at Dallas. “Did you get anything at the park?”

“Nothing,” Dallas said.

“I’m going to try a few different parks around here,” Austin said. “Maybe the chick swaps off and jogs at different places.”